


alone without you (by my side)

by oforamuse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse
Summary: five times mickey milkovich misses ian gallagher + the one time he doesn't have to
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 20
Kudos: 175





	alone without you (by my side)

**juvie**

Mickey is horny. Mickey is really fucking horny. Out of his mind, he doesn't know which way is up, teenage freak kind of horny. Getting laid in juvie is a difficult job if he wants to keep his status of ‘not to be fucked with’, plus recovering from a taking a bullet in his leg means he can’t exactly approach anyone subtly (fuck _you_ , Kash). He’s still got a few months to go before he’s released back into the world and he can’t fucking wait, practically counting down the days. Mickey didn’t think there would ever be a day that he would actually miss the shithole South Side, but he does. He misses the loud streets and the broken windows, the L and even the fucking Kash and Grab. He misses…

No, no he doesn’t. He just wants, needs, to get laid.

Laid by Ian Gallagher.

Fuck, Mickey thinks, being betrayed by your own subconscious fucking sucks. He needs to be laid by that freckly ginger fuck soon or he may actually lose his mind (what he has left of it, anyway). Besides, he doesn’t actually miss the kid he just misses his dick. That’s it. He couldn’t give a shit about that Gallagher fuck. He really couldn’t. Not. A. Shit. Really.

He runs his fingers through his hair out of frustration, _stop being so fucking dramatic Milkovich_ , since when did he get this fucking ridiculous?

He rolls his eyes at himself, 2 months to go.

Until then though, it’s him and his trusty right hand alone. Resigning with a sigh, Mickey swings his legs over his bunk and jumps down deftly from the top.

‘Fuck you going?’ Jay, his roommate, asks absentmindedly from where he’s been throwing a ball against the wall and catching it on the other side of the room. Jay’s not one for useful recreational activities.

‘None of your fucking business that’s where’ Mickey snaps, grabbing his towel off the hook and swaggering out into the hall. He walks the short distance to the communal bathroom, it’s midday he should be alright, and locks the door behind him.

His trusty right hand indeed.

**married life**

His knuckles sting as he runs them under cool water in the kitchen, he’s pretty certain he’s got some glass in there somewhere.

Fucking stupid.

‘The fuck happened to your hand?’ Iggy grunts from where he sits at the table, nursing a beer in one hand and a wad of cash in the other. Who the fuck is giving Iggy cash? Ignoring him, Mickey watches the blood mix in with the water as it gets sucked down the drain and into the sewers. He wishes he could go down with it, down below his house, below the sidewalk, below every single person who knows his name and get sucked into the drain of the fucking earth. Anything to stop the dull ache in his stomach, the ache that feels like someone has force fed him stones, weighing down his every step. The ache that constantly reminds him, no matter where he is or what he’s doing, of Ian fucking Gallagher. Ian, who he hasn’t seen or heard from in over a week, not since he stood in his doorway and told him he was fucking off to the army. Not since Mickey’s eyes stung with tears and _please don’t go, please don’t leave me, stay, stay, stay, stay_ threatened to fall out of his mouth and onto the floor between them.

‘Don’t what?’ Ian had asked, but Mickey knew what he really had been saying.

_You know what the fuck I mean to you, Milkovich. Are you man enough to admit it? To make me stay?_

No, he wasn’t, Mickey thinks darkly. The ache getting heavier at the recalled memory. Mandy had called him a pussy, she was right. He is a pussy, a pussy who allowed himself to get this fucked up over a boy, a boy he tells himself every single day that he doesn’t give a shit about.

He doesn’t know where the shift happened, where the thing with Ian went from banging to…to this emotional shit. Sometimes he feels so much he thinks he’ll drown in it, drown in what he feels for Ian, for men, for what he doesn’t feel towards women. What he should and shouldn’t feel. He doesn’t know when the shift happened but he knows there definitely was one. A moment of clarity, of something clicking into place between the two of them and the entire world changing. Was it the hot summer evenings they spent at the dugout? The hours in the Kash and Grab, between working and fucking? Was it those last few moments of ignorant bliss before his dad came crashing in and their false sense of security fell to the ground? He remembers every single fucking moment of that morning and it makes his skin crawl.

_Get the fuck off him get the fuck off him get the fuck off-_

‘Asshole, you’re running up our water bill.’

Mickey’s snapped back to the kitchen, the water still flowing out of the tap, though there’s no trace of blood left. His other hand grips tightly to the counter top, almost painfully. Lord fucking knows how long he’s been standing there lost, Iggy’s now gone and Mandy stands with a disgusted look on her face, leaning against the fridge.

‘Fuck off.’ He grunts, turning off the running water and walking straight past her to his room, not looking back once.

**prison**

6 months, 3 days, 2 hours and a handful of minutes, give or take a few, according to the scratches on Mickey’s bed post.

Over 6 fucking months since he last saw… _Ian._

Mickey’s heart jumps right up into his throat at the realisation and he feels like he’s going to be sick. There’s a pain in his gut like someone has taken a knife to a vital organ and won’t stop slowly twisting it.

6 months, _twist_. 3 days, _twist_. 2 hours, _twist_.

And no fucking Ian.

He knew he’d been kidding himself when he asked Ian to visit him, but this is just cruel. There was a part of him during the first few months that he’d hoped he’d be wrong, that little flicker of hope that perhaps Ian would come to his senses. Maybe his meds would level out, the mania controlled and he’d be on the next bus over to visit. But he hasn’t heard from him, not even a call. It’s humiliating to think about the amount of time Mickey just spent waiting, like a fucking dog for his owner or a 1950s housewife. He’s not a fucking housewife. He’s seen more of his estranged wife and his kid - if it even is his kid - than he has Ian. Mandy hasn’t even been by more than once to check in on him, he hasn’t heard from anyone else either. Not Fiona, not Debbie and sure as hell not Lip, but fuck, who can blame him for being disappointed? He’d clearly managed to kid himself into a false sense of…something, at least. Family? Friends? Fuck knows what, but he’s never doing it again. Love and it’s bullshit.

Lying there on his shitty prison mattress, all he can think of is Ian’s face behind that glass, reserved and disconnected, having to be paid to even come and see him. As if Mickey hadn’t dropped absolutely everything certain in his life to be by his side, to be with him, to be allowed to love him. And the worst fucking thing? He’d do it again, a thousand times over. He knows that if Ian turned up today, smiling and flirting like he always used to, all of that would be water under the bridge. He had always been told that love makes you crazy, but no one ever told Mickey that it makes you fucking stupid too.

Fuck, he misses him. He loves him and he always will with every single fibre of his being, every bone and every atom.

_I love you. The hell does that even mean?_

Twist, twist, twist.

**mexico**

He’s been working closely with a few guys the last couple of weeks, dealing and selling, working the streets here and there. Mickey tries not to stay in one place for too long, doesn’t make friends, doesn’t own much shit. It works for him. He’s safe here, but only if he keeps it that way.

‘You ready?’ Emiliano asks from the front seat, a lit cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. Jose is passed out in the passenger seat, feet up high on the dashboard and lightly snoring.

‘Yeah.’ Mickey grunts in reply, adjusting the sunglasses on his face, carefully minding the bruising under his left eye. He’d managed to get into a shit faced drunk bar fight last night and gained himself a punch to the face and a kick in the groin before he was pulled off the guy. This American guy a table over had been shit talking for hours, Mickey doesn’t even remember (or give a fuck) what it was mostly about. He does remember, however, him spitting out ‘fags’ at these two other guys who’d been standing innocently next to each other at the bar. Mickey didn’t even know if they were together, or if they had just happened to be standing there at the same moment. That was what sealed the deal for Mickey, leaping over the table and going straight for the fucker’s nose.

He reaches into his pockets for a cigarette and lights it as it balances between his lips. They’re driving further South to another city where their boss has some connections he wants to solidify, apparently they’ve not done business in a while so he’s sending Mickey down there to start off some talks. It makes Mickey feel like an important part of the operation, as if he was needed, but, he also knows it’s because if he ended up dead in a basement with a bullet in his skull, they wouldn’t feel like they lost one of their own. He gets it, whatever.

‘You miss America?’ His stomach jolts and the car suddenly feels too hot. The sun is powerful, it burns directly through the window and onto Mickey’s skin.

‘What stupid fucking question is that?’

Does he miss America? Does he miss being on the run? Prison? Having absolutely no one?

Well, not no one.

‘Your home, do you miss it?’ Emiliano catches Mickey’s eyes in the mirror, and even though he’s wearing sunglasses Mickey shifts his gaze uncomfortably to the moving road out of the window. Fuck feeling like he’s under a microscope.

‘No I don’t fucking miss America, ain’t got no home there.’ He mutters, taking a drag and blowing the smoke out into the air. 

'You ain’t got a girl there?’

Mickey barks out an exasperated laugh which leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

‘No girl.’ He spits bitterly, hoping Emiliano gets bored of this game of 21 questions he seems to be playing and move the fuck on.

‘No girl, dawg? So coming here was pretty easy for you then, yeah? You wanted that Mexican sunshine!’

He snorts. Easy isn’t exactly how Mickey would put it. Ripping your heart out of your chest with your bare hands and stomping on it a few hundred times before feeding it to a pack of wild dogs is probably how Mickey would put it. There is nothing easy about thinking you’d finally fucking make it across the finish line and having it taken away from you almost instantly. There is nothing easy about the man you have loved since you were a kid telling you that he loves you but he can’t come with you. There is nothing easy about kissing him desperately at the border, begging with every touch that he’d change his mind but he doesn’t. Driving across the border alone, leaving the only person you’ve ever actually loved behind isn’t fucking easy.

Loving Ian Gallagher is easy, though. Once he let himself given in, once he finally faced those feelings head on and gave himself permission, it was easy. Deep down, it’s always been easy. It was the rest of the shit in their lives that wasn’t. Mexico was supposed to be their paradise, their freedom together but instead Mickey is here, alone. Forever.

He doesn’t know when he’ll see Ian again, but fuck, he knows that he loves him.

**prison (again)**

Mickey keeps his eyes on Ian until he sees him disappear around the corner and out of sight. Out into the world a free man, back to Chicago and his fucked up family. That’s where he belongs, that’s where he’s always belonged. Not in here, not locked up like an animal surrounded by criminals. Mickey’s heart pounds, it feels like it’s threatening to pump itself right out of his chest and spill directly out onto the floor. He knows he’ll be getting his new roommate assignment soon, some new guy will be sleeping in Ian’s bed, ruining the little world they created for themselves here. He knows missing their prison life is ridiculous, because who the fuck has a good time in prison? But it was the first time in their sorry lives that they could just be together. No homophobic dads, no out of control mental illnesses, no need to run to run away - if they could run away.

Mickey knew rolling on the cartel for Ian was a big decision, he knew that Ian’s crime was a lesser one that his and there was a possibility for him to get out earlier than him. He knew it deep down all along, except he really thought that perhaps the universe would be kind to him, just this once, and let them have longer together. Apparently not. Everyone else is allowed to be with the people they love but not Mickey Milkovich, not at all. It feels all they fucking do is say goodbye to one another.

His hands start to shake, and fuck, he misses him already. It’s ridiculous, they’ve gone months and months without contact, they’ve been in different countries and states without hearing a word from one another and yet this is hurting his chest like no other goodbye before. Was it the false sense of safety they’d created for themselves? Was it kidding themselves that they finally had this, after all their literal years of waiting.

Mickey hangs onto their goodbye from a few moments before, or had it already been hours? He doesn’t know, he’s not taken his eyes off the last spot he saw Ian before he left, left Mickey, left _them_ behind.

 _Shut the fuck up_ , he begs himself, _this time is going to be different_. He knows that, he knows that they are still them, even if Ian is out there and Mickey is in here. Ian isn’t about to go find some other guy to shack up with whilst Mickey does his time, he knows that. Or at least he thinks he does. He hopes he does. Still, he can’t help but be reminded of every other time he’s been lulled into a false sense of hope by Ian Gallagher. Mickey loves him regardless but boy, does he have a talent for breaking Mickey’s heart.

This time will be different, he repeats, finally pulling himself away from the glass window. He turns reluctantly to look at their beds, Ian’s one looking hauntingly empty whilst it awaits its new owner. The thought of climbing into his empty bed tonight without Ian on top of him is depressing, and though they rarely actually slept alone, it was nice to always know he wasn’t far away. He’d been far away for too long.

Last night they lay tangled in Ian’s sheets, sweaty and spent but momentarily content in each other’s arms. The moment passed and the next morning’s event dawned on them both quite quickly. Mickey failed to hold back the threatening tears as he whispered his love against Ian’s neck in the dark.

‘I love you, I never want to be apart from you.’

‘I know Mick, I know. I love you too.’ Ian tightened his grip around Mickey as he kissed the top of his head, bringing him in as close as he could. ‘It won’t be long.’

Mickey sighs and climbs up onto Ian’s empty bed because fuck it, if Ian isn’t the one sleeping here then definitely no stranger will be. He hates top bunks but he knows he’ll lose his mind if he stays down below. He’s only ever been on the bottom for Ian, so why change that now?

He sniggers quietly at his own stupid joke, before rolling over solemnly to face away from the door.

His chest hurts, his heart hurts, his fucking everything hurts.

He closes his eyes and imagines Ian is still next to him, like he used to when he was here the first time or when he was down in Mexico. He’s gotten pretty used to loving Ian from afar.

It won’t be long.

**\+ the honeymoon**

_Fucking_ Terry. They really should’ve let Mickey murder that fucker when he wanted to because he’s getting real tired of his relentless shit. They’re covered in feathers, lying naked on the floor of their honeymoon suite, hearts racing from almost being shot rather than the sex they were about to have.

‘Your fucking Dad.’ Ian laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, rolling over to give Mickey a hand getting up.

‘Ay, you should’ve let me shoot him like I wanted, at least we would’ve been able to bang on our honeymoon in peace’ Mickey snips back, attempting and failing to shake off as many of the feathers as he can.

‘We’ve definitely had the chance to bang in peace.’

‘Then why aren’t we banging right now?’

‘Fair point.’ Ian grabs Mickey by the hips and pulls him closer, man handling him in the way he knows his husband likes it. Ian cups the back of his head and brings Mickey’s lips to his, softly then with more pressure. They kiss slowly before Mickey pulls back, clearly still distracted by his father being a homicidal maniac.

‘Fuck, I want him dead.’ Mickey searches Ian’s eyes in hopes of meeting him halfway and knowing that this is the only way that they will be able to be together like they’ve always wanted. Christ, they’re fucking married for fucksake and it’s still not enough for the universe to let them be.

‘I know you do, Mick. If there’s any fucker that deserves to be murdered it’s him but-’ 

'But what?’ Mickey snaps, he can feel the anger kicking in, ready to swallow him whole. 

‘We’re married, you’re my husband and I can’t let you be thrown in prison when I just got you back.’ Ian says, brushing his fingers softly through Mickey’s hair to get the remaining few feathers out. ‘We’ve been apart for so fucking long, so let’s just have this. Now. We’ll figure out a way to deal with Terry, I promise we will.’

Mickey softens, his heart stuttering in his chest as the urgency to carry out Terry’s immediate death ebbs away. He takes a deep breath and rests his forehead against Ian’s, pulling him in.

‘I love you.’ He whispers, and _fuck_ he will never get used to the freedom he feels every single time he gets to say that to him without fear. Fear for his life, fear he wouldn’t hear it back, fear he would never get the chance to hear it back. The ring on his finger reminds him he never has to lie about his love ever again, he gets to have this. 

‘I’ve loved you since I was 15 years old, Mickey Milkovich, your father isn’t going to change that.’ Ian softly replies, pressing a kiss lightly to Mickey’s lips.

‘Ay, that’s Gallagher to you.’ Mickey mumbles, pulling back. They haven’t had that particular conversation about the name thing yet so it’s mainly supposed to come off as a joke.

‘Mickey Gallagher.’ Ian laughs, testing the feeling of the new name out in his mouth. ‘I think I like the sound of that.’

‘Ian Milkovich?’ Mickey suggests, giving Ian a knowing look, ‘Dad would love that.’

Both boys laugh together softly, they know that Terry would probably burn down the entire South Side if that ever happened. Perhaps that’s all the more reason to do the name change, in hopes that it gives the old bastard a heart attack or some shit. Mickey could only dream.

‘Come...' Ian says, grabbing Mickey by the arm and leading him back to the bed in the centre of the room. It’s covered in all sorts of crap from the bullets but with a quick swipe Ian manages to send most of it to the floor. He flops straight down on the bed and pulls Mickey down on top of him.

This is it. This is what Mickey has been craving for years, the chance to lie in Ian’s arms without a timer on his back or anything else looming horribly over them. He knows they’ll have to deal with Terry soon, because Milkovichs don’t give up (he knows that well), but right now, he’s allowed to have this. He doesn’t know what his new name will be or whether or not they’re gonna move back into the Gallagher house or if Terry’s going to drive by in 2 minutes with another round of ammo. What he does know, and he knows this for a fact, is he is never fucking letting go of the man beside him. It’s also nice to know that Ian isn’t planning on letting him go any time soon either, which sadly shouldn’t come as much as a relief as it does. It’s hard to not think about everything as temporary when it’s felt like most of his life has been stuck on pause.

Mickey shuffles around slightly so he can lie comfortably on Ian’s chest, his hand resting softly on his rib cage. He can feel Ian breathing in and out, rhythmically up and down. He’s safe. They’re safe. They’re together. They can just be.

‘What're you thinking so hard about?’ Ian asks, his hand coming up to rest gently on the top of Mickey’s, their rings aligning perfectly.

‘You.’ Mickey replies, ‘Always you.’

**Author's Note:**

> howdy, this is the first time i've written for ian and mick despite the fact i've been following the show for 7 years. pls be nice. 
> 
> happy wedding my boys
> 
> title taken from all i want by kodaline, which was my gallavich song i used to listen to on repeat during s3 and s4. 
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and oforamuse on tumblr
> 
> xoxo


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